


when we cut our hair

by shatou



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Character Study, Crying Anakin Skywalker, F/F, Female Anakin Skywalker, Female Obi-Wan Kenobi, Fix-It of Sorts, Hair Brushing, Post-Rako Hardeen Arc (Star Wars: Clone Wars), Symbolism, i didn’t intend this to be a fixit but here we are, no beta we die like liberty with thunderous applause
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29254074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: Anakin has never seen her Master cut her hair.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 19
Kudos: 187





	when we cut our hair

Anakin's hair has always been short.

It's harder to tuck long hair under an ill-fitted pod racing helmet. So of course she had short hair then. She did like to watch her mom braid her own dark hair and wrap it into a beautiful bundle at the nape of her neck, every strong, thick lock shining healthily in the sun. But the mere thought of waking up ten minutes earlier every morning to do that always brought a frown to Anakin’s mouth - and so, whenever the ends of her hair tickled the back of her neck, she’d come running to her mom. Shmi, the kind, patient soul, would take on a gently chiding tone as she ran her hands through Anakin’s grown out hair. “You know when it is that we cut our hair, Ani.”

Anakin would pout. “This isn’t like that, mom.”

All her mom would do then was smile and shake her head, and pull Anakin down onto a stool so that she could trim her hair. It happened quite often, with how quickly her hair grew. It had always been that way. 

By the tenth year of her life, Shmi no longer tended to her hair. Obi-Wan Kenobi did.

Perhaps a part of Anakin will never grasp the events of that day in its entirety; because what she remembers of it is the fighter she piloted, the rush in her veins, the scintillating darkness of the wide wild space, greater than any abandoned mine on Tatooine. She remembers the seat being too low for her small nine-year-old body, the seatbelts being too loose at first, the ship trembling as she sped up, and she remembers the bright sparks of the droid control center when it exploded, securing Padmé Amidala a victory that Anakin herself didn’t comprehend at the time. She remembers Obi-Wan’s eyes and the hollow look on her face as she watched her Master’s body turn to ashes on the pyre. She remembers not knowing what happened to Qui-Gon, and being too afraid to ask.

Anakin remembers the singed locks behind Obi-Wan’s ears. The severed braid that her Master quickly locked away and never spoke of again.

_ You know when we cut our hair, Ani. _

_ This isn’t like that _ , Anakin thinks to herself.

It was the first and last time she saw her Master’s hair visibly cut. Obi-Wan’s hair grew slowly: fine, straight locks of strawberry sunlight and rich auburn cascading into slight waves around her temples, around her ribs, around her hips. Yes, it grew slowly - to this day it does - but ten years is a lot of time for hair to grow. And Obi-Wan cares for it daily, combing her hair as a prelude to her twice-a-day meditation sessions, braiding it back in her sleep to prevent breakage. She might not care for luxuries, like the perfect Jedi she is, but she is fastidious, meticulous, methodical. She trims split ends sometimes, but Anakin has never seen her Master cut her hair.

Anakin’s hair, on the other hand, remains cropped short, save for the tied-back tail and the braid that touches her right jaw, then her right collarbone, then her right breast. Her hair grows fast, has always had. “Your braid ends are getting tangled again, Padawan,” Obi-Wan would note, every other month, and Anakin would shrug and shuffle away, until her Master sits her down herself to remedy it.

“I am starting to think that you’re doing this on purpose, Anakin,” Obi-Wan admonishes once, crouching close enough for Anakin to feel her breath on her skin. “How many times must I offer to teach you how to braid your hair?”

Anakin doesn’t say anything. Maybe she really has been doing it on purpose. Maybe she likes the gentle tug of Obi-Wan’s fingers in her one tiny lock of hair, more than she should. Maybe she likes her Master sitting like this, almost between her legs, too focused on the small task at hand to notice Anakin staring.

Ask Anakin when was the day everything changed for her. She’ll tell you it’s the day she suddenly realizes her mother is no longer the most beautiful woman she has ever seen. Obi-Wan Kenobi is.

—

Pain looms beyond the numbing haze of anesthesia like a knife point beneath draping fabric: one wrong move and the weave will smart and tear. Anakin drifts from one short bout of consciousness to another, her body leaden, her world blurry and faint. Past a certain point she starts to see again, light behind her closed eyelids, images before her mind’s eye, flashes of sand, sun, sabers. Sounds, screams, sacrifice, too many, too much, memories, old and new and fabricated and real, boiling and roiling, rising into an unbearable tidal wave.

Anakin’s eyes snap open in a sharp gasp, her chest heaving. The room is dim and the sheets are soft. It’s not the sandy arena of Petranaki nor the cold hard ground of the slaver’s quarters that she’s lying on; and it’s an intravenous tube, not chains, that holds her hand in place. Hand… Her left hand. Why is it that she can’t move her right hand?

“Anakin.”

Breaths still ragged, Anakin shifts her gaze. Her head turns heavily, towards the direction of Obi-Wan’s voice. And then her eyes widen.

“Master…” Anakin rasps, throat rough with disuse for Force knows how long. “What—what happened to you?”

In the barely-there light that streams muffled through the infirmary curtains, Obi-Wan’s hair ends curl up above her shoulders like copper wires in a shorted circuit. Her hair - her long, beautiful locks, that she used to brush with such care; that she braided deftly every night, hands behind her head, without ever using a mirror, while Anakin stole glance after glance - is nearly all gone, barely falling past her chin now. Stray strands fall over her forehead, almost unkempt, so unlike the Obi-Wan that Anakin has known all her life.

The shadow over Obi-Wan’s eyes shudders apart. A pained smile twists her lips as she reaches towards Anakin. Her hand is cool against Anakin’s scalp; almost too cool for Anakin’s liking. Obi-Wan’s hands are particularly cold when she hasn’t been sleeping enough.

“I’m alright, Padawan mine.” Obi-Wan’s fingers trace down, knuckles brushing her cheek, and Anakin leans into it only for her Master’s touch to continue trailing downwards. Gently she squeezes Anakin’s right upper arm. “The question is, do you remember what happened to you?”

Her Master’s voice is no stronger than her own, no more than a murmur. Silence beats on louder and louder until it caves in on itself and crumbles in realization. Memories flood Anakin’s mind, coherent this time, and unfortunately so - Naboo, Padmé; Tatooine, Shmi; Geonosis, Dooku. A sob tears itself out of Anakin’s throat as she tries one last time to curl her right hand in vain.

There’s nothing there, and Obi-Wan strokes her hair as she weeps.

—

Grief has a way of catching up to people. It felt surreal when Anakin carried her mother’s limp, lifeless body in her arms,  _ unreal _ when she laid Shmi Skywalker down to return to dust. It’s only starting to feel real now. It’s only starting to dawn on her that she couldn’t even protect the one person she had sworn to free, couldn’t even honor her only promise; that she was too late because she is too weak, too weak to stop bowing her head to orders, too weak to do the right thing instead of doing what others deem to be right. Had it not been for Padmé’s quick wits and generous allowance, she would have left Obi-Wan to fend for herself. Obi-Wan, who…

_ “...is like my mother,” exclaimed Anakin, voice hoarse with the panic rising in her chest. Another person that she was going to lose. If she hadn’t lost Obi-Wan already. _

_ “And your mentor, and your friend.” Padmé held her eyes sharply, in a knowing gaze.  _ And more _ , Anakin’s mind supplied, guiltily. “All the more reason for us to rescue her.” _

Obi-Wan, who stayed by Anakin’s bedside in the infirmary every day despite her own injuries; who attended nearly all of her physical therapy sessions; who smiled so minutely when Anakin showed her the new platings of her prosthetic. Obi-Wan, who cut all of her own hair in the face of Anakin’s loss. Obi-Wan, who smiled so gently, so brightly in the blue glow of her lightsaber, blade hovering beside Anakin’s right ear.

Anakin stares at her hand. Her own Padawan braid coils haphazardly, looking like it is part of the wiring itself amidst golden servos and black plating. She’s going to give it to Obi-Wan, soon; but she can’t bear to part with it yet, or the memories that it carries. She shouldn’t feel this way. She’s a Jedi Knight now, and she’s going to be a General of the Republic Army tomorrow. The war is not a nightmare that she could hide from by crawling into Obi-Wan’s bed.

She shouldn’t feel like she’s losing something she has never had.

Anakin still wonders if her - former - Master knew what it means in the Tatooine sense when one cuts one’s hair. For the humans, at least; humans like her mother and her, chipped and collared and forced to dwell in the least honorable crevices of that dreadful sandy speck of a planet.

_ You know when it is that we cut our hair, Ani. _

She closes her fingers around the braid.

_ When we mourn. _

—

“Anakin, come here.”

Anakin glances up. Obi-Wan is sitting on the bunk bed opposite to her own, holding a hair brush that’s not meant for her own hair texture. With a smile, Anakin scoots forward, leaving behind her splayed-open toolbox and servos gear oil. She settles between Obi-Wan’s feet, still on the floor, the back of her head to her Master. The warmth of Obi-Wan’s body surrounds her, and Anakin stays her imagination.

Obi-Wan runs her fingers through Anakin’s hair, gently combing out the knots first. It has been less than a year since Anakin stopped trimming her hair, yet the curls are already tumbling past her shoulders, well on their way to reach her heart by the end of the year or so. It’s growing into sort of a wild mane, and she couldn’t care less about it. Washing it is already a chore when you’re dragging yourself from one battlefront to the next with a headstrong Padawan at your hip, wondering if you’ll get to the relief missions in time before another hospital full of civilians is bombed into oblivion, wondering if this is what the galaxy has devolved into, or if this is what the galaxy has always been. Her childhood tells her it’s the latter.

Anakin doesn’t realize she has tensed up until her Master’s finger pads knead at the base of her skull. She sighs and rests back. Obi-Wan begins to brush her hair in unhurried, repetitive motions, from roots to ends, stopping every once in a while to detangle whenever it snags. Obi-Wan has done this for her before, more times than she can count, even though they are no longer as often together on missions as they used to be as Master and Apprentice.  _ “You have such beautiful hair, Anakin,” _ Obi-Wan said, the first time, and Anakin was very glad she was facing away and her hair was (hopefully) thick enough to hide the bright red of her ears.  _ “Why won’t you take care of it more?” _ Eventually, Obi-Wan no longer asks her to take pity on her own hair; she simply tends to it herself, brushing out the curls until they shine like spun gold.

Anakin would gladly grow out her hair for the next ten years, if it means she gets to keep this routine.

“Would you like me to braid it for you?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Yes, Master,” Anakin says. Obi-Wan’s hand slides down her jaw to tilt her head up straight. The innocuous gesture sends heat pooling up in Anakin’s lower belly. She squeezes her legs together and hugs them to her chest. If Obi-Wan senses her tension now, she makes no mention of it.

—

Rage does not begin to describe how Anakin feels. She storms away from Obi-Wan - Obi-Wan, wearing the face of known bounty hunter Rako Hardeen - without a word. There is some irony there, that their hairstyles, or lack thereof, match now. The urge to laugh maniacally rises to her throat, clogging it along with swallowed back tears. She feels worse than an idiot. She feels deficient, like she was being tested and had failed while Obi-Wan passed with flying colors. She feels humiliated.

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan is chasing after her. Or, no, Obi-Wan is calmly jogging behind her, as if she is sure Anakin wouldn’t break into a run just to get away from her. Anakin hates the fact that Obi-Wan is right. She lengthens her strides, but she doesn’t find it in her to run. “Anakin, wait, please.” She half wants to fold Obi-Wan into her arms immediately, under Hardeen disguise or not, and half wants to throw her fist at Obi-Wan - somewhere that doesn’t hurt her, like her shoulder, just to let her have a piece of Anakin’s mind.

Obi-Wan doesn’t give up, and maybe that’s the most infuriating and endearing trait about her. Anakin whips around when Obi-Wan’s footsteps nearly match the rhythm of her heart.

“Anakin, you…” Obi-Wan has the gall to raise a hand to the ragged tufts at Anakin’s temple. Anakin has the weakness to let her.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Anakin grits, glaring at the ground. She doesn’t want to listen to that rough alto voice of the bounty hunter. She’s not sure if she even wants to listen to Obi-Wan’s lilting, velvety voice anymore. A week ago Anakin would have given anything to hear Obi-Wan telling her  _ You have such beautiful hair _ again. A week ago Anakin would have given anything to have Obi-Wan’s fingers combing through her curls once more.

Shame that she has shorn them all off.

“...You don’t know what it means when we cut our hair, Obi-Wan.”

“I do,” Obi-Wan whispers. Her knuckles brush Anakin’s skin, and oh how Anakin shivers. “I do,” she repeats. “I’m sorry, Anakin. It’s me, isn’t it?”

So she knows. So she does know what it means to Anakin. Does she know how much she means to Anakin, then? She thinks of that day when she woke up with her Padawan braid still intact and her right arm gone from the elbow down; when she opened her eyes to the sight of Obi-Wan’s hair cut off to chin-length in a controlled manner. Nobody in their right mind would go as far as Anakin did, for the sake of mourning, and then vengeance. How does Obi-Wan see her now, she wonders. A failed Jedi who couldn’t control herself? An utter child who wore her emotions on her very bared scalp for the world to see?

“It is,” Anakin answers, and turns away so that she doesn’t have to see the disapproval that is sure to follow. Obi-Wan doesn’t seek her out again.

Not until a month later.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, her voice quiet in the sound of pelting rain outside their quarters’ windows. Her hair is a layer of coppery down on her scalp, so of course the brush in her hands isn’t meant for her.

Anakin glances away for a moment, rolling a lock of her own hair between her fingers. Her curls are already past her chin, and they already tug and snag and break when she brushes them. It used to never hurt like that when Obi-Wan brushed her hair. But Anakin can’t bring herself to ask, and Obi-Wan never offered. 

“Please, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says again. “Tending to you was what I missed the most.”

Anakin liked to think she knew her Master, and she knew that Obi-Wan is a creature of routine. The war has taken much away from them; the only normalcy they have left is each other. She can’t be sure anymore. Not after what Obi-Wan made a show of not trusting her. Not after Anakin made a fool of herself. So she can’t figure out why Obi-Wan is pleading so. She doesn’t want to know why Obi-Wan sounds like she is asking for a favor from Anakin instead of doing her one. But there are bags under Obi-Wan’s eyes and lines on her foreheads and even then, even then, her Master looks younger for how tired she seems. Anakin’s heart thumps heavily like the slow fluttering of a puffy eyelid.

Without another word, she takes a seat on the carpet, between Obi-Wan’s feet, her back resting against the couch. Careful fingers run through her messy, outgrown curls of mismatched lengths. The soft-capped bristles graze her scalp, all while Obi-Wan’s other hand holds her head firm, strokes her hair back, thumb rubbing gentle circles into the back of her head. It feels like like a cool drink pressed into her hand on a hot summer afternoon, like a warm scarf being wrapped around her neck by caring hands as snow falls. But it doesn’t feel right. She doesn’t feel worthy.

She bites down on the inside of her cheeks and hugs her knees to her chest, trying desperately to quell the shaking in her chest and swallows down the salty beginning of tears. She really shouldn’t have let herself close to Obi-Wan like this. She’s not strong enough to up and go and leave now, not when this spot has gotten so warm. Her eyes begin to blur. She does her best to stay the tremble in her shoulders. Maybe the Order is right about love after all. It hurts so bad.

Obi-Wan’s hand pauses in her hair. Of course; she has to have noticed. There’ll be the inevitable questions, that Anakin would rather jump out the window than answer; then it’ll be more disappointed silences before they part ways again. The rain is pounding hard and so does her heart. Anakin just wants to leave now, to cry alone at least. But then Obi-Wan shuffles down from the couch, right behind her.

And wraps her arms around Anakin.

If it was hard enough to keep in her tears before, it’s impossible now. Anakin buries her face into her hands, muffling her sobs there. Obi-Wan pulls her close, very close, fitting Anakin’s back to her chest. Her embrace is tight and firm and secure. Her breath laces into Anakin’s hair, and she is even rocking the both of them a bit, as if Anakin is a little girl again, waking up from a nightmare.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan whispers. Anakin hiccups and wipes her eyes with the heel of her thumb. All she accomplished is smearing tears all over her face, wetting her hair. “It’s alright, Anakin. I’ve got you.”

“I don’t—I’m not—”  _ Not attached to you _ , Anakin wants to say, like a blatant, meaningless lie.

Obi-Wan hushes her, kisses her hair lingeringly. She can’t stand this - it will make her want more, and it will hurt more - but she can’t draw herself away from Obi-Wan’s touch either. She leans into Obi-Wan and everything her Master deigns to give her.

“I’m very proud of you,” Obi-Wan says, when the sobs have ebbed away, at least some. “You did what I couldn’t, Anakin.”

Anakin frowns. “What…?”

“Your resolve. Cutting all of your hair, I mean.” Obi-Wan sighs. “I was never able to do it. I only let it grow, after Qui-Gon, and then you…”

Anakin pries Obi-Wan’s arms off, only to turn around. She feels a little lightheaded, but not enough for her to relent. “Master.” She grips Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “What does it mean when _you_ cut your hair?”

Now it’s Obi-Wan’s turn to be confused. “I thought you…”

“Answer me,” Anakin says, then softens it with, “Please.”

“It means letting go. We do it to signify…” Obi-Wan hesitates, reaching up to brush a lock from Anakin’s forehead, and Anakin leans into it openly now. “...that we have gone through deep pain, but also that it is done. That we have left it behind. In some cases, it’s… to cut ties. I know I’ve caused you pain.” She lowers her eyes. “I can’t and won’t excuse myself of that. But I—ah. I am… much more attached to you than I should ever be. It’s the kind of failure one doesn’t admit, you see?” She lets out a weak laughter. “I thought I should speak to you one last time, Anakin, before I let you be—”

“No,” Anakin blurts. “That wasn’t… I was  _ mourning _ you, Obi-Wan.”  _ Even though I was told not to. _ “I wasn’t cutting ties with you. I would never.” She tears up again, and the dam breaks, and the word bubbles up unbidden. “I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.” 

Suddenly she’s allowed to hide in the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck and breathe in the familiar scent of her. Obi-Wan strokes her hair again, cradles her close, nuzzles against the crown of her head, and now it feels right. Now it feels like coming home.

“Anakin, oh,” her Master breathes. She sounds so fond and so afraid at the same time. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t say that.” Anakin lifts her head and leans in until their foreheads touch. The tip of their noses brush. She waits for Obi-Wan to pull away, and when Obi-Wan doesn’t, she tilts her head. Everything still tastes like tears, but Obi-Wan’s hums are sweet and her hands are sweeter on Anakin’s skin.

Outside, the rain pitter-patters to a stop.

—

(“General Kenobi, you have something in your hair…”

“Sharp eyed, Waxer.” Obi-Wan smiles, waving her hand in dismissal. “It’s a decoration, not any kind of foreign device. Don’t worry about it.”

She touches the lock when the clone sergeant has turned away. Anakin’s dark golden lock is just the perfect shade to mix with her own reddish blond, when twisted together like this. She wonders, briefly, if her lock stands out in Anakin’s hair enough for her troopers to notice. Anakin has better not show it off, if the girl has any sense.

Although perhaps Obi-Wan wouldn’t be so opposed.)


End file.
